


Fixed That For You

by gardnerhill



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Prompt Fic, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:23:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson may have embroidered a few incidents for his stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fixed That For You

**Author's Note:**

> For a Watson's Woes prompt (Fix a Canon scene). I may have bricks thrown at me for this one.

Holmes and I approached "John Garrideb," nee "Killer" Evans, with our guns drawn. He started, and looked at us with a rueful expression. He conceded defeat, and began to haul himself out of the trap-door of his counterfeiting operation. 

And in an instant he whipped out a gun and fired two shots. I yelped from a sear like a hot iron on my inner thigh; I'd been struck by a bullet before and recognized the pain. Holmes was already moving, swinging the butt of his gun down on Evans' head.

I sat on the floor and tore open my trousers at the bleeding site with my pocket-knife while Holmes searched the stunned outlaw for weapons. "Watson?" he said tersely, over the clink of the darbies. He'd heard my cry. 

"It's nothing, Holmes."

"Good." Holmes resumed his investigation of Evans' basement lair, his back to me. "Mr Evans, you have been busy, haven't you?"

I dragged myself to my feet and hobbled over to stare at my bound attacker. "And how did you gain your reputation, with that kind of aim?"

"Got 'em drunk first, mostly," Evans growled. "Hellfire, I didn't even give you a real wound. Too bad I couldn't darken your day for a few minutes by killing your attack dog, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, I'd have shot you myself if you'd killed Watson," Holmes said lightly, never looking up from his investigation of the crime scene. "While you were cuffed and helpless on the ground. And happily hanged for it."

I hid a grin as that blithely cold-blooded reply turned Evans' cheeks ashen. He said not another word for the rest of the evening.

I helped Holmes march Evans outside and to a cab for the trip to the station. 

In that same cab on our way home, Holmes pulled aside a flap of my torn trousers to examine the crease. "Another leg wound, Doctor? You really ought to stop collecting them."

"I will, Holmes – when you stop angering dangerous men," I retorted. "And this is just a bloodletting, not a wound. Thank God that man's a terrible shot."

"Terrible shot?" Holmes said jocularly. "Or your own clumsiness?" He turned his head out the window, humming a Sarasate passage.

Ruefully smiling, I reminded myself that one did not expect effusive displays of emotion from Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
